


Steal Dancing

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Angry Sex, Angst, Coping, F/M, Graphic Sex, Het, Het and Slash, Infidelity, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Rare Pairing, Season/Series 10, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-22
Updated: 2008-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 17:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack has a nasty coping mechanism that kicks in when Daniel's missing or presumed dead. Vala susses it out, and has a twisted notion of what to do about it to protect Daniel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steal Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> Background established-relationship Jack/Daniel. References Jack/Sam, Jack/Kerry, Jack/various other female characters. Set between 'The Quest' and 'The Shroud.'

"This is what you do when he disappears," she says, both hands braced hard on his chest, leaning on him as she sheathes him. "You punish him. You punish yourself." She's riding him as she takes him in, up and down, muscular and burning and drenched in arousal -- riding him to the rhythmic litany of his sins: "The CIA agent when he vanished from the Replicator ship. The exotic dancer when he was stranded on Tegalus. Your own second-in-command when he was kidnapped in Honduras." Up for the ID, down -- _hard_, right on the verb, _vanished_, _stranded_, _kidnapped_ \-- for the dateline. "The string of whores the year he was ascended. The bloody _caterer_ when you thought he'd died on Oannes." She reaches down and around, pulls him up off his back and forward, three times as strong as she looks. She's leaning away but she's bringing him with her. "You switch back to women the way you switched back to men when your wife left you." The arm around his neck is corded in muscle, locking his face into her cleavage and jerking his _leave my wife the fuck out of this_ growl into a cut-off grunt, and the hand she uses to press her breast over against his face is iron-boned, relentless. "You think you can hide in a woman's body. You try to drown yourself in tits and pussy the way another man would drown himself in drink." She's as willow-lithe as she is hard-muscled, arching backward over his knees. Dragging him with her, bending him forward, dragging him down into her like undertow; there's a roaring in his ears like surf; her glossy hair is a fall of water cascading over his shins. "Are you drowning yet, General?"

He opens his mouth to answer, or groan, and she stuffs it full of breast. His tongue writhes against hard nipple, his lips tremble against soft skin. He can't help it, can't stop the reflex: he sucks. She grips the back of his head and pulls, hard, until his teeth push past his lips and into her flesh, and when he tries to wrench his head away a crescent of fingernails bites into the base of his skull. He groans more deeply, not helpless but driven past restraint, and locks his arms at the wrist around her tailbone, the way her legs are hooked at the ankle around his. It grinds her sit bones into his hips, pelvis grating against pelvis, like a scrape of raw bone on bone, both of them too thin-skinned in the hardest, most angular places. She squeezes with her legs, with the muscle clamped around his cock, working herself on him even though they're locked flush and brutally tight. She's groaning now too, a hoarse and sexual sound, her head thrown back, her voice a sandpapered contralto. He's ravenous for her throat, but he can't reach her neck with his mouth, just ends up dragging it between her breasts and banging it on bone. His teeth cut the inside of his lip, and when he mouths her skin, her salt sweat cuts the tang of blood and stings like hell.

He's half nuts with the drive to thrust, but he can't, bent double like this, and she's got him by the hair now, one hand fisted in it. The impulse to drag her up and flip them both over and fuck her into the mattress twitches through him before he decides to do it, telegraphing his intent, and she unlocks her ankles to drive her heels into his ass. The kick is hard and startling and makes him jump. It jerks them both forward, driving him into her, opening his legs enough that she starts to fall through. He shifts his grip to catch her and ends up cradling her; with a harsh laugh, she arches out of the near-embrace, feet bracing on the bed to either side and head bracing between his calves, and he's left gasping into her ribcage, so deep in her that he can barely breathe.

She moves her free hand between them, her knuckles brushing his skin like a slither of water as she slides her fingers down her belly. She's shaking, maybe from holding the bridged position or maybe because she's starting to come. Probably the position, because she's reaching for her clit. He's as hard as he's ever been, one rough thrust will finish it, but he can't thrust, can't push himself over, and her fingers catch in his pubic hair as they scrabble and shift to spread her lips, and the sharp, thin tug of pain makes him even harder.

"I'm going to say his name," she tells him, and a quiver goes through his lower abs where he feels her fingers curling, circling. "I'm going to come on that beautiful penis of yours that he loves so much, and it's going to make you come in turn, and I'm going to say his name so that even in that -- blinding moment -- you can't -- forget -- him -- " She's coming now, and he's trying to hold her because he's an asshole and a faithless shithead and every molecule in his body is wailing _not daniel not daniel not daniel_ but he can't help the instinct to support and protect -- but she's bucking through waves of contractions, choking his dick and stealing his breath and foiling his grip, and he can't hold on.

"Daniel," she says, outcry and accusation and plea, as it peaks, and it's the pinch she gives herself, the vicious twist of her fingers on her clit, that breaks him open. He's been ready to pop since she shoved her tit in his mouth, but he comes without warning, erupting into the thick, wet depths of her, with Daniel's name ringing through the roar in his ears and her self-inflicted orgasm spasming around him.

Her arched spine softens abruptly and melts in his hands and then curls the other way. She surges up in a gasping crunch, right up into his face, hands gripping him at the join of neck and shoulder on either side, legs bending to tuck her calves under her thighs alongside his. "Daniel," she says, breathless and deliberate, out of the dark sea of hair lapping her pale face. Her eyes are fierce and colorless; he can't remember what color they are in the light. He never can. Her breath is hot on his mouth, a sweet-sour Mai Tai dampness. "That is who you are fucking when you do this, and until we get him back, that is bloody well going to be me."

He takes her by the throat. "You wanted this," he says, a low growl of warning not to play the martyr. He stops just short of shaking her, but they're both shaking, still half-coming, no violence required, and in truth his hand on her is gentle. "You tracked me down at that party, blew whoever you had to blow to get an invitation. You cut in on this dance."

"Little enough thanks I'll get from that senator's aide you had in your sights," she says, and squeezes him hard, with her hands and every internal muscle that still works. She's got him by the throat too.

He stares at her but can't stare her down. Her hands move to his chest, the heels digging in as if to push him away, or administer CPR. He doesn't move. He wants to know how she knew about Daniel and him when no one else in the past decade has sussed it out. He wants to know how she found out about all those flings; he wants to know whether Daniel told her, which would mean that Daniel knew. _You were dead_, he's telling Daniel in his head before he can squelch it, _you were dead, stop dying you son of a bitch_ \-- but it's the same old song, an earworm, just some shred of tune you can't shake off, like the Mister Softee theme after the truck's gone by, and the truck's gone by, all right, and Mister Softee's slipping out in a wet leak, but she's not blinking, and he's not quite enough of a dick to lift her off him.

It doesn't matter if Daniel knew, and it doesn't matter if Daniel told her things that Daniel never told anyone but him, because Daniel's gone. Daniel's not missing; Daniel's _gone_. He pretends to crackpot denial because he's learned that it's the only thing they'll accept as a substitute for public grieving. He grieves in his own fucked-up way, and he doesn't like that this two-bit shyster has his number, but in the end that doesn't matter either. So he doesn't ask. None of it matters.

"Yes," she says, finally. A reply to his previous statement, not an answer to the unasked questions, except it is. "I wanted this. I set out on his behalf to keep you from anyone else, and I succeeded, for the duration of one sexual encounter at any rate."

"If he did come back this'd probably kill him. There's irony for ya."

"If your infidelities could kill him he'd be dead and buried long ago. You can't possibly kid yourself that he doesn't know. You want him to know. You want him hurt as badly as you are."

Right now he just wants her gone, but debating hypothetical pain thresholds in the afterlife isn't going to achieve that, and he is curious about one thing. "So where's the percentage? You get laid?"

"Quite nicely, thank you. You know perfectly well how attractive you are, and you use it as it suits you -- you only embarrass yourself by pretending to modesty. But to cut a dull conversation short: I am no threat to you, except inasmuch as I succeed in derailing your hideous coping mechanism, and I am not sleeping with you because you're the closest I can ever get to him, though I assure you that he's been more faithful to you than you will ever be to him, you fucking bastard."

"You're not sleeping with me," he says, flat and hard, and gestures her off him.

She dismounts from his lap, apparently obedient, and then slides around behind him, enclosing him in those way-stronger-than-they-look arms. "The night is young, General. It may be quite some time before we retrieve him, and for all my charms I don't flatter myself that one orgasm with me will break you of your wretched habit. This _is_ only the beginning."

_You go right on believing that "retrieve" thing, sweetheart,_ he thinks. _Happy to fuck you 'til the light dawns in there._ But he doesn't have the meanness in him anymore to say it.

He does a quick mental rundown of the place: nothing he'll care if she walks away with. He breaks her hold easily to get up and shower, and when he comes back, she's asleep in his bed, dead out and snoring, and it's his damn bed, so he gets into it.

None of it matters, so it doesn't really matter if she stays.

**Author's Note:**

> [Whatever It Takes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/22568) is a gen perspective on the characters during this time. [Waiting for ~~Godot~~](http://archiveofourown.org/works/23176) is a minimalist/existential/WTF?? version.


End file.
